


In Secret, They Give

by theadamantdaughter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon Snow - Freeform, Jon busts a nut really quick, Jonsa Smut Week, Sansa Stark - Freeform, Sansa gets head again, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadamantdaughter/pseuds/theadamantdaughter
Summary: For Jonsa Smut Week — Day Two: Everything but ConsummationJon finally returns from Dragonstone. Sansa corners him in a dark bedroom. They can’t help themselves, no matter how hard they try.





	In Secret, They Give

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [She Does Not Give In](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11483445) by [theadamantdaughter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadamantdaughter/pseuds/theadamantdaughter). 



> This is pure imagination about the beginning of season eight. We’re going to pretend they know they are cousins. Maybe Bran told them over dinner. Who knows. I didn’t want to get into it. It’s smut week, not a life-altering-revelations week.

How long has she been out here?

Bran first brought the message at breakfast, and immediately, Sansa dropped her mug of warm, honeyed milk and bolted from the great hall. She’d prayed to every god she could recall as she tucked herself inside a fur-lined cloak, yanked on leather gloves, and dashed across Winterfell’s snow-laden yard to the Southern gate.

She’d ordered it open, planted herself in the center of the carved arch, swept her gaze back and forth across the silent, serene landscape. If her heart only slowed, this would be almost peaceful.

But how could her pulse quiet? Jon would be here. Today.

Bran withheld that information for a full week without her knowledge, a fact she would’ve scolded him for, were he not the three-eyed raven, filled to the brim with morsels of wisdom.

 _I brought the letter to you at the proper time_ , he said, his head bowing curtly. _No need to have you hovering in the yard for days on end._

A wry smile played at his thin lips before Bran added, _my Queen._

It was an echo of the night before when Bran had revealed the first part of Jon’s message: his submission to Daenerys Targaryen. The Northern lords threw themselves into an uproar.

_ We will not serve a Southern queen! _

Sansa did her best to defend him. Jon was doing what he had to. Jon was doing what was best. He was ensuring the North’s survival. In the end, her pleas fell on deaf ears. The lords renounced Jon’s title, as quickly as was given.

She’d sunk down in her seat, fully expecting the gathered forces to disband and flee the warm walls. What she hadn’t accounted for: Lady Lyanna Mormont, of Bear Island.

_ We do not serve a Southern queen, the girl shouted, but we do serve a Queen in the North! Lady Sansa of Winterfell; she has fought for us, not with swords or horses or shields, but with her generosity, with her leadership! She has protected us. She has provided food and shelter for our armies. She has made the North strong again. _

The young Lady rose, raising her sword. _She is the Queen in the North!_ The leather-bound pommel thudded against sturdy wood; a rallying cry went up until the hall was quaking.

_ The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! _

That makes three now, Sansa muses silently.

Daenerys Targaryen—  Queen of the Andals and the First Men. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. Breaker of Chains. Mother of Dragons. Stormborn. The Unburnt. Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, or so she claims.

There is honestly no end to that woman’s assertions. Sansa mentally notes humility and rationality as possible weaknesses. If she means to be the Queen in the North, she must learn from these shortcomings; she must expose the soft underbelly of her opponents.

And, guard her own. No Queen is made entirely of stone, not even Cersei.

Sansa’s breath puffs in front of her lips, her thoughts shifting to the reigning Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She's lost a husband, all of her children, and now, her lover, if the rumors of Sir Jaime riding for Winterfell are correct. Yet, Cersei continues to prove herself nothing if not poetically ruthless.

Perhaps Sansa can mark Cersei's plight for revenge as her downfall. It would not be the first time in history that madness cost a ruler their throne. But, perhaps not. The woman may be maddening, but Cersei is cunning and calculated in her plots.

As for herself, Sansa casts a long look back at the castle, where Arya used to run amok and still does, where Bran sits with his books and Sam, gathering tidbits of information to complement the tendrils of time caressing his mind.

Soon, Jon will fill the walls, too, and Sansa knows this is her weakness. Her family. Her loved ones. Her Starks.

“The lone wolf dies,” she tells herself, glancing longingly across the snowy hills.

A flicker of color catches her eye, black against white. Her breath catches in her chest.

More specks appear, small and wind-blown, but moving ever nearer to Winterfell’s walls. It will be better for Jon to be here. He will be safe.

Sansa lets out a gasp. “The pack survives.”

* * *

Sansa spent the months without him dreaming about him.

Jon said _'when.'_ In the godswood, so long ago, he held her close to his chest and said _'when I return.'_ She inhaled him, the pine and wildness that clung to him; she memorized him so he could warm her in the coldest hours of the North's night.  

And when he rode away, Sansa promised herself: When you return, I'll make you smile. When you return, I'll make you proud. When you return, I'll cherish you and hold you; I- I'll—

She can never finish. No matter how many times she repeats these promises while she walks the halls of Winterfell. Sansa rushes by the room she keeps for him, biting her bottom lip and smoothing her dress. She never finishes.

But, in her dreams, Jon meets her. In her dreams, Jon tells her his promises: 

_ When I return, I'll have your army. When I return, I'll bend the knee. When I return, I'll make you my Queen. _

His breath whispers across her skin, against her brow and her cheeks. Then, finally, her lips. Sansa's heart always stutters there. Her fingers twitch, her body aches with the need to close the distance.

But, she waits. She doesn't give in.  

Then—

 _You are my Queen,_ Jon murmurs, sealing the title with a kiss so sweet it makes her knees weak. _And I will serve you, my Queen._

Funny how dreams never come to fruition.

He's here, in front of her, wearing the same, solemn look from their departure in the godswood. It says he's sorry; it says sorry will never be enough.

His eyes, soft and grey, flick to the silver-haired dragon queen standing just to his left. She's one pace behind him, far enough to allow this reunion, close enough to claim him.

 _He's mine_ , her purple gaze screams. _He is mine. You may not have him._

Sansa introduces herself coolly, ignoring the knife in her back. Her only consolation for Jon's betrayal— she can add uncontrollable drooling to the list of Daenerys’s failings.  

* * *

"Daenerys does not care for the North's interests, Jon."

She finally has him alone, and she feels very much like a direwolf. Her hackles rise with a defensive growl. Her teeth bare with an angry snarl. Her jowls drip, her body shakes— she craves the taste of blood.

She could leap at the throats of every Northern lord and feel nothing but victorious. She could tear Daenerys's heart — does she have one? — from her chest without remorse.

"Sansa, you have to trust me."

“Trust you?”

Sansa fights every urge to rip and tear, to protect Winterfell with bloodied teeth. She is a lady, a queen, no matter her sigil. Her Lady Mother would be poised, civil. She would tell Sansa to wield her tongue with grace.

But, gods above, those are Jon's first words to her?

She snaps, her skin prickling with icy fury. "You were to gain an ally for the North, and you've made us subjects!"

"I tried," Jon urges. "I promised her aide against Cersei. I promised her six kingdoms. I negotiated, I brought a White Walker past the wall to prove the coming threat to her—”

His shoulders sink like his furs weigh heavy, and Jon slumps into a chair near the crackling fire. His eyes travel around Sansa's chambers; they're just as Lady Catelyn left them, perhaps with a few more personal touches.

When his gaze settles on the hearth, where a worn tapestry bears the Stark crest, he says, "You told me I had to be smarter than Father. You told me to be wiser than Robb."

"I did. I have yet to see how this is either."

A weary breath parts Jon's lips. "Daenerys would not fight for us without the North’s allegiance. I had no choice."

"There's always a choice!” Sansa protests, her fists clenched in agitation. “I rallied twenty-thousand men for you. I defended you, to every commoner, to every Northern lord—”

“And they made you Queen for it.”

When Jon looks at her again, she can pinpoint the sorrow in his eyes. He tries to hide it. His time as Lord Commander has taught him to be guarded and brave, but Sansa knows him too well.

“Jon,” She softens, closing the distance between them. Her hand rests delicately on his shoulder. “I- I’m sorry. I know you only did what you thought was best, but to keep the numbers—”

He cuts her off by standing abruptly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No, it does. If you want the title… Jon, it’s yours.”

“It’s not, Sansa. It’s not.”

Jon turns away from her, and she tracks him to her bedside table. Sansa keeps her Lady Mother’s combs there, beside a small mirror that Father purchased from a Dornish trader and a vase filled with white roses. Some are wilting, but Jon fingers the petals with a sort of reverence.

"You’ve always loved the winter roses. Ever since you were little."

Sansa scowls at the back of him, perplexed, “This isn't the time to change the subject, Jon.”

"I'm not. I’m—” Jon plucks one of the livelier flowers from the vase, twirling it in his fingers. “If you need an answer for why I promised myself to Daenerys, this is it.”

He turns to face her again, approaching her.  "All I want, all I've ever wanted, is for you to be happy. You talked about marrying a prince, having little boys that look like Rickon and Robb. I- I want—”

“I want one that looks like you, too, Jon.”

His breath catches, his words come out in a whisper. “We could name him Robb.”

“We could, and the others can be Ned and Jonathan.”

“You’d name one after—”

 “—after you? I would. _I will.”_

The sigh that escapes him is dreamy.

Jon glances down at the rose he’s holding, and Sansa can’t move. Curiosity keeps her rooted, that and the desperate need to be close to him. She tries to hide this, but it’s impossible with him right there, one step from her.

When he slips the rose into her hair, she melts.

Jon’s thumb brushes the shell of her ear; his fingers slip behind her neck. He looks at her with those depthless, grey eyes that say everything she can’t.

Her stomach dances with a swarm butterflies. The fluttering makes her think of Castle Black, when Jon swept her off her feet, when he kissed her forehead, when he smiled like the cloak she gave him was the best thing he’d seen in years.

Sansa steadies herself with one hand on his shoulder, curling her fingers in the collar of his tunic.

Her heart races like a stampede of horses. The thundering reminds her of the Battle of the Bastards, when Jon beat Ramsey within an inch of death, when she’d met Jon’s gaze across Winterfell’s yard and known she’d never go without love again.

The hand clutching Jon’s clothing flattens, slipping lower to memorize the shape of his waist, the curve of his hip bone. With the other, Sansa ensnares his wrist, keeps his palm against her racing pulse.

They’ve never reached this line; they’ve certainly never crossed it, no matter the circumstances or the pent-up desires.

It would’ve made sense at the Wall. Giddiness surrounded them, warmed them. She’d been so happy to see him, again. None would’ve blamed them before Jon left, if it’d happened in the godswood or in this very room, when desperation laced every word and made their souls ache.

She hadn’t wanted him to go, but she made him.

This time, Sansa stays still and silent, quieting every warning that she shouldn’t, that she’s foolish, that she could lose him. She drowns every fear with images from her dreams: the words he murmurs against her skin, the smile he reserves just for her.

“Sansa.” He coaxes her closer. Their chests brush. Their noses bump. “Sans…”

“Jon.”

His name is confident and firm on her tongue, and before she can say anymore, Sansa no longer has to imagine the feel of his lips. Jon cups her chin in both hands, pulling her against him.

His mouth is soft, yet insistent; gentle, yet as unyielding as the winter winds. His breath is sweet, intoxicating, dizzying. His hands are warm and rough, combing into her hair, deepening the kiss, making her sigh with him until his tongue slides over hers. 

Sansa tastes the spiced mead served at supper and thinks it’s delicious. She smells the pine-scented soap set by his bath and wants to breathe him in. She pushes flush to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She denies any space between his body and hers. Even through his furs, she knows he can feel her, every line and every curve of her body.

She can feel him— strong legs and narrow hips. His chest is firm against her breasts. His heart pounds into her sternum. His biceps squeeze her ribs. A hand follows her spine; his fingers dig into the small of her back.

When Sansa tilts her head, Jon’s lips explore her jaw, the pulse just below her ear.

She’s fully aware of how close they stand to the bed. She’s fully aware of the part of him that presses against her thigh.

It’s never been pure for her, it’s never been sweet. But Jon pays detailed attention to the hollow of her throat, and Sansa thinks, _this time it will be._

All it takes is a single step, and Jon reads her mind.

Sansa loses layers as they move. Her cloak: Jon loosens the leather buckles and pushes it from her shoulders. Her dress: he pulls on the laces, and she struggles free of the bodice. Her shoes: Sansa almost forgot she was wearing any, until Jon helps her sit on the edge of the bed and lifts her petticoat.

He’s still bowed before her, massaging the inside of her ankles, when Sansa teases him.

“Are you going to stay there forever? Or will you kiss me again?”

A smile breaks through. Jon looks up, surprising Sansa with a wink. “What if I kiss you here?”

He lifts her leg, his fingers brushing up the inside of her calf. His ascent stops at her knee, his thumb making circles around ligaments. Sansa almost huffs in frustration, until she realizes he’s awaiting permission.

She thinks she loves him for it.

“Yes,” Sansa nods, enthusiastically. “Kiss me there.”

Jon obeys, drawing out the moment like he never wants to leave it, humming low in his throat like there’s nothing he’d do to perfect it. Sansa watches him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her face heating.

His mouth drags along her skin, halfway up her thigh. When he meets her gaze, when he asks her, “And, here?” Sansa reminds herself how to breathe.

“That would be lovely.”

He chuckles. It tickles the inside of her leg. She feels the faint scratch of his beard, the warmth of his tongue.

Sansa falls back to her elbows, a gasp in her throat. _“Gods…”_

Jon seems emboldened by that sound. His hands make shapes, pushing her petticoat up to her hips, then drifting down. He guides her knees further apart, and her legs over his shoulders. She’s exposed to him, bare and vulnerable.

She grabs the mess of fabric around her waist—

But, Jon’s touch is so gentle; his kisses, so sweet. He nibbles and licks, learning every muscle in her thighs, memorizing the many ways to make her hiss, to make her whine.

His breath, long and slow, washes over her sex, and any of Sansa’s lingering worries die with a moan.  

“Jon.”

He looks up at her plea, a sly smile on his lips. “Sansa.”

She’s ravenous for him, a muddled mess of lust and desire. She’s so on edge she’ll beg, but Jon doesn’t make her.

His head bows, though his gaze stays on her. He starts with a kiss just above her clit, watching her mouth fall open with a suppressed cry. He buries his nose in the thatch of damp curls, seeing her shake as every inch of her body tenses for more.

Sansa rocks her hips, as if that’ll somehow spur him along. “Jon, please.”

She may as well be fractured ice when he finally licks her soaked lips, that’s how fragile she is. The muscles in her legs stiffen; her heels dig into his back, keeping him close. The sheets are all twisted up in her fingers. Sansa swears she sees stars on the stone ceiling.

Jon's all that grounds her: his hands holding onto her hips, his shoulders brushing her knees, his tongue, so wet and so skilled, circling her clit. She fights a bout of jealousy over where he learned such things—

Because he’s lapping at her like he’s parched, he’s looking at her like she’s a dream.

Sansa can’t think of anything better. There is nothing better.

She fists his hair, grinding against his chin. She whimpers, and dark, grey eyes drink her in. He possesses every inch of her skin, heat following his fingers as they glide from her hips, cup her ass, and dig into her thighs.

“Please—” Sansa pants. She can’t help herself. Every nerve is frayed, every part of her straining. “Jon, fuck.”

A moan vibrates in his chest, reverberates through her. Jon brings a hand up to join his mouth, slipping his fingers into her sex, sucking her clit, nipping at her gently.

It’s all she can take, being consumed by him, filled by him. Sansa bites her knuckles to muffle her cry, but his name rings clear in the firelit room.

She repeats it, “Jon,” and again, softly, “Jon.”

 He answers with a trail of kisses across her hips. Then, he moves up her body, feeling the curve of her waist, squeezing the mounds of her breasts through her corset. When Jon finds her lips and inhales the quiet whispers of his name, Sansa tastes herself on his tongue.

“Tell me, Sans. Please. What more do you want from me?”

His voice is low, rasping in her ear. His cock is hard and insistent, even through his trousers. Sansa rocks against him, mewling at the scrape of cotton against her swollen sex. Heat floods her all over again, sending lust through her veins.

“Your garments,” Sansa demands, sitting up and pushing Jon back. “Take off your garments. And mine.”

Jon fumbles with his belt; it thumps to the floor. His tunic hangs loosely around him, but he must decide on baring her flesh first. His mouth collides with hers, his hands slip around her back, yanking on her corset strings.

Desperation makes his fingers shake.  

Finally, finally, it’s loosened. Jon helps her free of it. Then, she lifts her hips, and he pulls her petticoat away, too.

He stumbles for a long moment, just admiring her. “You are… you are beautiful.”

Sansa’s cheeks flush. “And you’re still dressed.”

They rush into another embrace, tongues tangling and breath mixing. Sansa tugs on the ties of his pants. Jon kicks out of them. She pulls his tunic over his head. He wraps his fingers up in her hair, moaning into her mouth as her hands skim down his chest.

Sansa traces his ribs and his stomach; she feels her way across the puckered scars with an unexpected rush of tenderness. If she didn’t love him before, she does now.

“You are a good man, Jon Snow.” Sansa pulls away for a breath.

Jon bumps her nose with his. “I am yours.”

When he kisses her again, the urgency gone. It’s delicate and slow. She savors him, everything about him— the coarse, raven curls in her fingers, the tickle of his beard against her lips.

They move up the bed together; Jon lays her down carefully, languishing away minutes on the pulse in her neck, nuzzling her collarbones. His lips move to her sternum. He kisses her breasts. Sansa curves beneath him when he nips the peaks.

She’s so wet for him. When Sansa rolls her hips up into his, Jon growls because she slides down his length easily.

She does it again, up and down, soaking each and every inch his cock, tormenting herself. It’s a tease, but it has her on the cusp of blinding pleasure so quickly. Jon must know it, or maybe he’s right there with her, barely hanging on to sense.

He meets her next thrust with a slow circle, grinding against her clit. His arms shake as he does; his breath trembles with hers. They build a quick, needy rhythm, whispering the other’s name, rocking into each other until nothing matters but the absence of space between them

Jon’s eyes look wild. He bites his bottom lip.

Sansa’s entire body aches. She digs her heels into the bed.

“Sans—” Jon grunts her name into her neck, his release spilling onto her stomach.

His movements turn erratic, but he keeps moving, keeps going—

She comes with a loud whine, one he captures with his tongue, muffling the sound until the pleasure has ebbed from her limbs and the world rights itself again.

Sansa catches her breath with Jon in her arms. She tickles down his spine, memorizing the little bumps of bone, counting his ribs. She wishes to never move.

“I want you to stay,” she murmurs.

“You know I can’t. The servants would ask too many questions.”

“If they aren’t already.”

“You weren’t exactly quiet,” Jon laughs— it’s such a beautiful sound— and rolls to his side, “my little direwolf.”

Sansa smiles, watching as he leaves the bed and dresses. She wants to ask, she wants affirmation that she’s his, but Sansa swallows the question. There’s too much happening, too much to face still. It would be selfish of her to worry about her own feelings beyond the events of this night.

Her eyes follow Jon to the door of her chambers. Sansa sits up, clutching the blankets to her chest.

“I’ll see you at breakfast, Jon.”

He opens Sansa’s door, one last lingering look sent her way.

“Goodnight, my Queen.”

 

 


End file.
